


"No, I am."

by Neptune_Centari



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Pre-Series 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-31
Updated: 2015-01-31
Packaged: 2018-03-09 21:29:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3264980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neptune_Centari/pseuds/Neptune_Centari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Reichenbach and before Series 3. Sherlock visits Baker Street.<br/>I turned this short story into my first podfic! <a href="https://www.dropbox.com/sh/66hlisvm74qebu0/AABi93Ydib6_7LIIAvxaLR4Xa?dl=0/">Download MP3 Here</a><br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	"No, I am."

**Author's Note:**

> My first Johnlock fic! *Squeals* I hope you enjoy!

The rain fell quickly to the ground splashing and gathering into puddles that surrounded him while he stood in front of 221B Baker Street. His dark curls were matted to his face and neck as water droplets ran down his face, over his lips and off his chin. His coat was thick and heavy with water on his shoulders and the rain had long since soaked through to his silk shirt which was clinging to his lean form. He wasn’t wearing his customary scarf - too warm for it, even after standing in the rain for what had become to him an indeterminable amount of time.

Baker Street was, and had been for the entire duration of his silent vigil, empty and dark. The only light source emanated from the round wall light on the left side of the door which cast eerie and elongated shadows of the metal picket fence outside the flat onto the stoop and sidewalk.

Sherlock was completely unaware of all these facts at the moment. Nothing else penetrated his mind as he stood transfixed on the gold numbering of the door, the soft glow from the light reflecting off the beads of rain making them appear to glitter.

He finally walked forward, seemingly resolute in his choice, and opened the door of 221B.

The foyer was not as welcoming as he had hoped. Like the street outside it was dark, almost too dark, and as he crossed the threshold it became deafly silent as he left the rain behind him.

The staircase loomed before him, leading up and fading into blackness.

Before he could really even think about it, he was heading up the stairs, rounding the corner, up a bit more and then staring at the entrance to the flat. He couldn’t hear any sound coming from inside but he could see light coming out of the crack at the bottom.

The air around him suddenly became too warm making his wet hair and clothes feel extremely heavy and uncomfortable to the point they were suffocating him. Panic rose in his chest, he felt like he couldn’t breathe and he wanted to turn around and flee.

Unexpectedly the door to the flat opened, filling the landing area with bright orange light, and the dark, solid silhouette of a man framed perfectly in the center of the door.

Sherlock, startled, took an involuntary step backwards, and having been acclimated to the darkness, blinked frantically at the sudden bright light until after a few moments the shock subsided and the man staring at him came into clear, sharp focus.

John.

John stood silent and still, his blue eyes the only thing moving as they roamed up and down Sherlock’s body taking every inch of him in.

Sherlock felt paralyzed under John’s gaze, every muscle in his body suddenly tense and aching. When John’s eyes finally landed on Sherlock’s, Sherlock took in a sharp gasp of air as if he had been burned. The depth of emotion in John’s eyes was overwhelming and in a matter of seconds Sherlock was drowning in them.

The seconds ticked by agonizingly slow and just before Sherlock thought he wouldn’t be able to bare it any longer, that he must speak, must say something to the man he hadn’t seen in almost two years, John reached out and grabbed Sherlock’s arm, pulling him across the threshold of the flat and crushing his lips against Sherlock’s.

John’s hands came up to the sides of Sherlock’s face holding his head in position as he kissed him with a hunger and desperation that only comes from being robbed of being able to perform this act for far too long.

Sherlock didn’t fight the bruising kiss, quite the opposite, he welcomed it, he welcomed it as a flower would welcome the sun after a long, dark, cold winter.

Sherlock found himself being pushed back into the back of the door - which he didn’t recall ever being shut - as John moved away from Sherlock’s mouth and to his neck, biting and sucking while his hands moved down to Sherlock’s shoulders pushing him harder and harder into the back of the door.

Sherlock leaned his head back against the door looking up at the ceiling as John’s mouth licked a path over his neck, and his mind was electrified, buzzing, in a fury of motion with only one word repeating over and over - John, John, John, John.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John’s body and pulled him closer, his own body instinctively reaching out to John’s, needing more than anything to be closer, as close as possible. The heat between them was consuming, sucking the air from Sherlock’s lungs, rendering him unable to do more than whimper as John began to press his hips into Sherlock’s, grinding and thrusting upwards into him, their hard lengths rubbing against each other through far too many layers of clothes.

Both men were panting frantically now, the need building to the point of pain and John captured Sherlock’s mouth as Sherlock’s body shook and came undone while pinned to the door. Sherlock’s hands dug into John’s back, his fingers gripping John’s jumper, pulling him hard against him as he bucked his hips, riding out the release. John pulled his mouth away, taking with him all the air in Sherlock, and buried his face into Sherlock’s neck as he shuddered and followed Sherlock into the realm of sweet pleasure.

For a moment they both simply held on to the other, breathing deeply in time with one another until finally John brought his face away from Sherlock’s neck and looked directly into his eyes as if trying to find something. 

“Tell me, Sherlock, am I dreaming?”

Sherlock gently released John from his hold and John took a step back from him as Sherlock spoke.

“No,” he whispered sorrowfully, “No, I am.”

Sherlock’s heart shattered into a million pieces, mirroring the shattered look on John’s face, the pain and anguish etched into his features, the plea for it not to be true shining in his eyes.

Sherlock didn’t see as the roof of the flat lifted silently up and away vanishing into the black void above it, or the walls falling backward and disappearing into nothing, or the furniture fading into nothing, or the floor dissolving underneath them. 

All he saw was John as John reached a hand up to cup Sherlock’s cheek and Sherlock leaned into it as John began to fade away from him and Sherlock shut his eyes so he didn’t have to see it.

“I love you.” Sherlock whispered.

And when he opened his eyes again he was lying in the bed of the run down, dingy hotel somewhere in a part of the world he didn’t want to be. The room was sweltering hot and he was covered in sweat, the sheets sticking to his back. 

The neon sign outside the window filled the room with alternating colors: red, blackness, blue, blackness, red, blackness, blue, blackness.

He didn’t move, just gazed at the ceiling, seeing nothing, with only one word repeating over and over in his mind.

John.

And somewhere in London, a complete world away, John Watson sat up in his bed, panting, the echoes of a dream on the outer edges of his consciousness.

He stared into the darkness of his room and in a barely audible whisper said “I love you too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments are more than welcomed! *Hugs to all*


End file.
